


Act V, Scene III

by nimiumcaelo



Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bunny dies in prison, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-03 17:53:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14001420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimiumcaelo/pseuds/nimiumcaelo
Summary: What if Mr. Maturin's advertisement had never been answered? What if the only soul who was meant to read those words was unable to ever again? What if, believing Raffles had passed away at the bottom of the ocean, one Bunny Manders actually died while incarcerated?





	Act V, Scene III

_May 1897_

 

Doctor Theobald frowned slightly as his patient scribbled yet another note for him.

“Be sure to put it in all the minor ones, as well.”

Theobald snatched the note. “Of course,” he said dryly.

After shutting the door on his grumpy invalid, Theobald allowed himself to sigh.  _If only Mr. Maturin was less selective,_ he thought,  _I would be perfectly able to find a highly qualified nurse for him. But no, of course, he must have a gentleman…_

 

~

 

Another week had gone by without any news – any  _profitable_ news, that is. Nearly forty different young men who matched the description, more or less, showed up only to be sent back down the stairs. Mr. Maturin’s already foul mood had only darkened with each passing day and his doctor was considering making an executive decision and hiring one of the fully-capable medical men he was acquainted with just to be done with the whole ordeal. Still, something about the way Mr. Maturin’s scowl would lessen as he dictated yet another advertisement, particular to the last, made Theobald’s hand reluctant to pick up the phone.

On this seasonably rainy morning, Theobald sat just outside his patient’s room in an armchair, a romance novel by his favorite lady author between his fingers. Maturin had, so far, seemed relatively awake, judging by the way his eyes would languidly flicker open and blink for a minute or two and then tire and close again.  Theobald thought it best to simply let him lie.

Later, when it was time for the patient’s daily luncheon of a simple broth and water, Theobald found Maturin doing something he’d never seen before: wearying, apparently, of his lazy morning, Maturin had begun leafing through what looked like an old journal and was softly reading some of the passages to himself. Theobald paused in the doorway and listened. It sounded like poetry.

Feeling suddenly that he was being unduly intrusive, the doctor made himself to look as if he’d only just arrived. Knocking, he announced himself: “Lunch, Mr. Maturin.”

The invalid looked up and closed the journal in the same fluid movement. “What?” he barked gruffly, stuffing the weathered volume beneath his blankets.

“Lunch,” Theobald repeated, setting the tray down on Maturin’s lap. “If you’re up for it.”

Maturin scoffed venomously. “Don’t be foolish.” He picked up the spoon and dipped it resentfully into the broth. When Theobald made no motion to leave, Maturin glanced at him savagely. “Have you no other duties? I know how to feed myself, thank you.”

The doctor narrowed his eyes, used to being treated roughly yet still finding it to chafe. “I was simply waiting to see if the food was to your liking.”

“It never is.”

“Then I suppose I will leave you to it,” Theobald muttered and stalked out of the room. _Ungrateful bastard._

 

~

 

After several more unfruitful weeks of advertisements and rejected gentlemen, Maturin gave up the search. Instead, he took to asking Theobald for old copies of newspapers. He had been subtle about it, at first, interspersing the request among other innocuous ones, such as for more water or for a milder soap, but as time passed and he seemed to not find anything of value in the specimens brought to him from the library archives, he became more blatant.

“I think I’ll try the December 1895 _Mail_ ,” Maturin suggested over a weak cup of tea.

Theobald refrained from sighing. “Yes, alright.” 

Anything to keep his patient happy, healthy, and willing to pay Theobald for his services. After all, the walk to the library was pleasant and there were plenty of pretty librarians he had met in converation these past days. In all honesty, this was one of Maturin’s more pleasing extravagances.

When Theobald returned that evening, with a box of newspapers to set on Maturin’s bedside table, he found his patient in a lighter mood than usual. Each new round of papers seemed to give him hope – yet they always left him distraught. The doctor couldn’t quite tell whether it was a good thing or not.

“Is that all?” Maturin asked after finishing the final paper in the box.

Theobald looked up from his crossword. “Yes, that’s all.”

“December 1895?”

“Yes.”

“Of the _Daily Mail_? That’s all they had?”

Theobald huffed impatiently and kept his eyes on the puzzle. “ _Yes_ , that’s all. Those are all the papers from that month of that year of that paper, Maturin. I checked.”

The invalid clammed up and seemed to stiffen. He refused to look in the direction of the discarded papers, his gaze instead finding its way to his frail hands. He was still staring motionless after Theobald neatly folded and stacked the papers and returned them to the box to be returned in the morning. The doctor dismissed it. The man was moody, after all.

 

~

 

Yes, he was moody. His moods steadily worsened and fell to the basement finally on one day in late September. Theobald had returned with another box of what he thought to be papers no different from the rest. Surely, these dated  _Times_ could not be so different from all the other quivering examples of journalism brought before the rigid old man? Or, at least, so Theobald thought.

Maturin read through each paper with the same patient intensity; he never skipped even the dullest paragraph or simplest sensational article included. Theobald nearly was impressed with the man for it. After getting about three papers into the day’s box, though, Maturin’s analytical gaze dulled and his eyes glassed over. The doctor took a minute to notice, being engaged himself in making a light sketch of the bird on the neighboring tree’s branch. When he did look over, he found himself frightened that perhaps Maturin had passed on right under his nose and he’d never even noticed, so still was the man in the bed.

Theobald rose, and moved to put a hand to his patient’s shoulder. Yet before his hand touched anything, Maturin’s powerful grip had him around the wrist.

“I am fine, Doctor. You may collect these. Please.” The man’s voice was quiet and nearly indistinct in uncharacteristic weakness. Theobald found the final word spoken incredibly surprising; certainly Maturin had never bothered to show such simple kindness before.

Because of this  odd behavior , Theobald was wary and collected the discarded papers cautiously, fearing that the invalid might change his mind half-way through or might even fall into an epileptic fit of some sort. Maturin did neither, however; he simply sat motionless, staring at the curtained window with an incredibly melancholy expression. The doctor soon felt uncomfortable in his presence and left to place the box somewhere.

His curiousity peaked, Theobald  rifled through the papers and found the one Maturin had been examining. It was a special issue of some sort, apparently on crime and the justice system. The front page included a bawdy cartoon depicting some wretch bound and gagged, dangling three-fourths of the way off a cliff. Puzzled as to why this particular paper should be the one to upset his patient, Theobald plunged forwards.

He found nothing of note, however. There were articles on the increase of crime in certain areas, methods to supposedly protect oneself from murder and burglary, and advertisements for the latest life-savers to stow in one’s jacket. There was even a listing of all the occupants of the prisons, their entrance and release dates, as well as, for some, the dates of their passing. Theobald thought it all terribly dry and boring stuff and couldn’t come up with an explanation for Maturin’s behavior. Perhaps he was concerned about the safety of his home, and had seen one of these articles previously and wished to refresh himself on the methods recommended therein. Perhaps, also, he had relations in one of the crime-heavy areas listed and determined to learn just exactly how risky their predicament was. The doctor mulled over these things lightly, but dismissed them from his mind readily enough when it was time for his evening stroll.

 

~

 

Maturin quickly deteriorated after that  incident . Theobald found him, several times, curled in upon himself, wracked with sobs that seemed too large for his thin frame  to hold. He, of course, attempted to soothe the man, yet there was nothing he seemed able to do without Maturin snapping wretchedly at him or simply ignoring him in favor of his obscene depression.

Those were not the only signs of his descent, however. He began refusing even the most meager meals, seemed uninterested in Theobald’s offers to assist with bathing or shaving him, and even turned away  with disgust a cigarette that the doctor offered him as a last resort to try and lighten his mood.  At his wits end, Theobald took as good care of his patient as he was able and left the rest up to higher powers.

 

~

 

The descent into Hades was ended on October fourteenth, in the year of our Lord eighteen ninety-seven. Theobald found the wasted form of the wasted man lying peacefully in his eternal sleep that morning. It felt as if a burden had been removed, and, while he was guilty for this feeling, it made him more at peace and joyful than he’d been since entering Mr. Maturin’s employ. At least he knew there was nothing else he had to worry about and could simply wipe his hands off and say, “I did my best.”

The funeral was held a week later under an orange stained sky and Theobald was one of the few attendants, along with several members of the local parish and a young woman who had often helped Theobald find the newspapers his patient was after. The priest attending said his prayers, and the earth fell.

“I did my best,” Theobald murmured, turning from the grave. “I did my best.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm terribly sorry for ripping out your hearts like that, but the muse will have its way.  
> For those of you who don't know, the title comes from the scene in Shakespeare's _Romeo and Juliet_ where Romeo and Juliet die. After Juliet fakes her death with a sleeping draught, Romeo finds her and actually kills himself. Later, when Juliet reawakens, she finds Romeo dead, and finally kills herself out of grief.  
>  Thank you for reading, as always!  
> \- M


End file.
